


Recovery

by the_wordbutler



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: (or at least very little plot), M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Spoilers, blatant refusal to acknowledge canon, post-episode
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-31
Updated: 2016-03-31
Packaged: 2018-05-30 05:25:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6410584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_wordbutler/pseuds/the_wordbutler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A day later, the shock of everything with the Watchdogs and the nitramine and the attack on the Mackenzie house—  It all catches up to Fitz.</p>
<p>Luckily, Fitz catches up with Mack.</p>
<p>(Or maybe, in a way, they just plain catch each other.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Recovery

**Author's Note:**

> Am I blatantly ignoring all the FitzSimmons romantic development from the last couple seasons? Yes, I am. 
> 
> Spoilers for episode 3x14, "Watchdogs."
> 
> Thanks as always to saranoh, who not only inspired this story but beta-read it on super short notice. She's really the only reason I write smutty fanfiction at this point. Feel free to thank her for that.

Mack is in the infirmary for an entire day, which feels like an exceptionally long time when you are the person _outside_ the infirmary, pacing the floor and mostly hoping for heaps of good news. Fitz bargains with Jemma for access the best ways he knows how—Jaffa cakes, Tetley tea, and a truly pitiful expression—but every time, she closes the door and crosses her arms at him.

"He needs to rest and recover," she chides, "not—"

She wiggles her hand at the space between them, and Fitz frowns. "Not what, Jemma? Because all I want to do is make sure—"

"Oh, I know exactly what you want to make sure about, Leopold Fitz," she interrupts tartly, "and _that_ is not the sort of recovery he needs right now."

But the day after everything, she mercifully releases Mack from the infirmary, placing him on very _very_ light duty with strict instructions to keep his stitches intact. And the second he hears about the all-clear, Fitz abandons a half-finished project to rush over to Mack's bunk.

Maturely and not at all like a man possessed, thank you very much.

He knocks twice before practically barreling through the door—and, what's worse, directly colliding with Mack. Mack, who wears jeans and a sleeveless undershirt and who blinks before smiling at Fitz like he hung the bloody moon. Fitz colors at the patient, familiar amusement and briefly considers backing out of the room and trying again.

But because Mack just keeps watching him, he blurts, "Jemma'll skin you for being out of bed, you know. Very strict about stitches, that one."

Mack snorts. "Nice to see you too, Turbo," he says, his voice terribly fond.

Fitz wrinkles his nose. "Yes, well," he starts to defend, but then, he looks at Mack. Really looks at him, this living, breathing man with skin and muscle and a white bandage around his upper arm, and he feels— Well, he feels _something_ , like a spring uncoiling in his chest and stomach. And the longer he stares at Mack, his body relaxing for the first time in the last twenty-four hours, the more everything with the Watchdogs and the nitramine and the attack on the Mackenzie house finally catches up to him. 

His hand trembles, just for a second, but even that tiny twitch is enough to strip all the good humor from Mack's expression. "Hey," he says, closing the distance between them. "I'm okay. Jemma patched me up, and besides, it'll take a lot more than a bullet to—"

"I know," Fitz interrupts, mostly because the end of that sentence bloody terrifies him. He reaches up to touch Mack's chest, pretending he can feel the beat of his heart under cotton and flesh and bone. "But between you and the shooting and me and the nitramine—"

"Wait, you had a run-in with that stuff?" He nods a little unevenly, and Mack tilts back just a few inches, inspecting him. "How bad?"

Fitz shrugs. "I'm okay."

"Didn't ask you that. Asked how bad it was."

He glances at his hand, small against the vast expanse of Mack's chest. When he swallows, his throat feels thick and sticky. "They hit me with a—a splotch. Like at the ATCU facility, but just the one." The words dodge and weave a little, proof that he's nervous. "Our solution didn't work, but Daisy, she froze it off me before I, ah. Uh. Like an explosion, but in reverse."

Mack blinks. "Imploded?" he asks. He sounds strangled, like the bullet nicked his vocal cords.

Fitz nods. "Yeah, that. But—"

"You almost imploded?" Mack repeats, gripping Fitz's upper arms and holding on for dear life. Fitz starts a little, not because of Mack's enormous hands (which he likes) or the possessiveness (which he, ahem, more than likes), but because of the concern evident on Mack's face. The fear, like maybe this thing between them (still nameless, still clumsy, still terrifying) means as much to him as to Fitz. 

Fitz nods again, more unevenly, and right away, Mack deflates. "Shit, Turbo," he murmurs, and his death grip transforms into a big, warm hug.

Fitz very nearly melts into him. "To be fair," he points out, "you were shot. With an actual bullet. Much more likely to—"

"No statistics after my guy almost imploded," Mack cuts him off, and Fitz ignores the way his heart stutters as he acquiesces. 

They linger like that for a long time, Mack wrapped around Fitz like his own personal suit of human armor. When he finally backs up a step, his hands sliding back down Fitz's arms, there's still worry caught up in his expression. "Where'd they get you?" he asks. "With the nitramine."

"Neck," Fitz answers, tilting his head. He's studied the spot several times now, poking at the red, raw burn from the nitramine and, worse, the liquid nitrogen. Mack rolls his lips together, his face contemplative and maybe even a little lost as he strokes his thumb along Fitz's jawline. When he touches the edge of the burn, Fitz hisses a little—but he shivers, too, in a good way.

"I don't like other things marking you up," Mack decides after a moment, his eyes drifting from the burn to Fitz's mouth and back again. "Supposed to be my job."

All at once, Fitz swears that every molecule in his body strains to be closer to Mack. Like he craves the hard planes of his body on an atomic level, a thought that feels like both flying _and_ falling. But rather than explain that, he swallows. "I'll file a formal complaint with the Watchdogs, then."

"Good idea," Mack replies, but not without tugging Fitz away from the door. They stumble a little, Mack with fingers that thread through the back of Fitz's hair and Fitz with his fingers curled in Mack's shirt, until Mack's sitting on the bed and tugging at Fitz to straddle him. Fitz hesitates, Jemma's lectures about recovery echoing in the back of his mind until the moment Mack kisses the unblemished side of his neck.

Then, he remembers the dark bruises on his clavicle from last week and very nearly ruts into Mack's lap. 

He feels the curl of Mack's grin against his throat. "Guessing you don't mind if I fix the problem."

The rasp in his voice nearly draws a moan from Fitz. "Recovery," he says weakly.

Mack huffs a laugh. "Yeah, that can wait," he replies, and Fitz resists for one whole second before he tilts his head down for a kiss.

They kiss hard and messy, greedy even, like they tumbled right out of a romance novel and onto Mack's stupidly narrow bunk. Fitz drags his palms across every inch of bare skin—shoulders, upper back, his good arm—until Mack pulls away enough to shed his shirt and allow Fitz to grope along his bare skin. By the time Mack returns to Fitz's neck, Fitz feels as disheveled as he looks, with his shirt hanging open and his mouth puffy from the hungry way Mack kisses.

"Turbo, we gotta—" Mack grunts after minutes that feel like hours, and Fitz scoots back a little even as his whole body begs for more contact. Mack releases him long enough to fumble with his fly—with both their flies, actually, his hands strong and sure even as Fitz resists the urge to rub against his hand. Still, he hisses when Mack exposes his cock to the cold air, and the shiver that runs through him triples when that rough, warm palm wraps around him.

He rocks into the touch, his eyes falling shut. "You shouldn't—"

"Watchdog asshole hit my non-dominant arm," Mack replies smugly, and Fitz almost laughs. "Means I'm perfectly capable of handling this."

He punctuates the statement by thumbing the head of Fitz's dick, and Fitz bites down on a little whine. "You're lucky I put up with you," he warns, and promptly kisses the smirk off Mack's beautiful face.

The second round of greedy kissing only lasts a few seconds before Fitz loses all semblance of higher-order thinking and starts flat-out thrusting into Mack's fist, his breath devolving into ragged pants. Mack urges him on, murmuring his name (his actual name, too, not just Turbo) and calling him gorgeous until Fitz can't decide whether he's about to come or cry. He tilts his head down, almost hides his face against Mack's neck, and Mack kisses his temple as he tugs them close enough together that he can work both their cocks at once. Wank them together, their bodies rocking in the same steady rhythm that Fitz knows as well as his heartbeat, as well as the sound of Mack's breath when he drifts off to sleep.

"Mack," he whimpers, almost keening as he ruts into that familiar, firm hand.

"I got you, Fitz," Mack promises, and Fitz's whole body trembles when he comes.

Mack's free hand curls against Fitz's back almost immediately after, and Fitz knows from the way his breath stutters that he's only seconds behind. He tugs Mack even closer, holds him like they're shielding one another from the same storm, and Mack releases a noise like a sob as he chases him over the edge. He strokes them both through the aftershocks, working them until Fitz whines and shoves his hand away. "Sorry," he murmurs, and loops his arm loosely around Fitz's waist.

"Not last I checked," Fitz grumbles, and Mack kisses his temple.

Hours from now, when the rest of the base sleeps, Fitz'll admit to the raw terror he'd felt yesterday, with the Watchdogs and the nitramine and the attack that left his boyfriend (or whatever) in the infirmary.

But right now, he sighs and asks, "Recovery nap?"

Mack chuckles against his ear. "Knew there was a reason I liked you," he replies, and Fitz smiles.


End file.
